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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28257471">Queen of the Drowned God</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebittermountain/pseuds/frostedarsenic'>frostedarsenic (thebittermountain)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Rhaella Targaryen, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Ironborn Culture &amp; Customs, Power Dynamics, Rhaella Targaryen Lives, Threats of Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:47:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,172</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28257471</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebittermountain/pseuds/frostedarsenic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rhaella Targaryen finds her power and does not marry Aerys Targaryen. The Ironborn are wondering *what* exactly is happening, but they're not entirely displeased</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quellon Greyjoy/Rhaella Targaryen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Queen of the Drowned God</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Fifth Moon, 257 AC, Dagon’s Pride—The Narrow Sea, between Cape Wrath and the Broken Arm</em>
</p><p>Rhaella supposed she should have been frightened. Like any other child of the main kingdoms, she had heard the nightmarish stories of the Ironborn. Her Velaryon and Celtigar cousins cursed the raiders, and even the fiercely independent Starks and Martells had begged aid against them from her grandfather in the past. Joanna, her sweet-hearted Lannister lady, had nothing but venom in her heart for the Ironborn, and mention of the raiders was the only thing that could make Lord Tywin’s fury hot rather than cold.</p><p>Still, despite knowing she was like to die, be enslaved, or at best become a salt wife, Rhaella couldn’t bring herself to be terrified. Not for her own life, that is. She worried for her ladies and maids, for the men who had survived the battle, and most particularly, she worried for Iaret.</p><p><em> Please</em>, Rhaella begged the gods over however long she was shut in the cabin, <em>let Iaret <strong>at least</strong> return to her family, to her lands</em>.</p><p>Rhaella might be only a spare Targaryen, with all the multitude of cousins from her uncles and great aunts, and her death would likely only grieve her grandparents, but Iaret faced precisely the opposite problem. Her only living sibling was Lewyn, long pledged to the Kingsguard (and accompanying them asides), and her sister Khensa had married an Yronwood, and no Martell would let an Yronwood child sit the Sunchair.</p><p>Even if—and Rhaella’s breath hitched when she let herself think of this—even if Prince Manetho married again, he would not live to see another child reach their majority. Her lady—her foster-mother, truly—had but one living heir, and Doran had not yet seen even ten namedays.</p><p><em>Gods</em>, Rhaella often cursed herself in those dark, blurred-together days, <em>why had she been so selfish?</em></p><p>Marrying Aerys would be a nightmare, true enough, but if she had not pleaded to visit Dorne—to perhaps find someone of her own choosing to marry—Iaret would have taken the land route over the mountains. She would have been safe and doting over little Doran.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Quellon Greyjoy frowned at himself as he paused at the cabin door once again. He could not puzzle out for the life of him, why a tearful young girl’s prayers kept capturing his interest. He had heard the prayers and tears of young noble girls many times over his life—more than most men would, to be sure—despite having but twenty-seven years to his name.</p><p>There was no reason why this Rayna Dayne should intrigue him so. He sighed, and looked about the ship, attempting to distract himself. Unfortunately, his men had everything well in hand, and the weather was more than fair. Quellon shook his head, but gave into his curiosity, and leaned against the door to hear her better.</p><p>At first her murmurings seemed nothing out of the ordinary, praying as she was to the Greenlander Seven. Even the reportedly hedonistic Dornish—in his own experience Quellon had found this statement to be both an absolute lie, and hold a drop of truth—for the most part seemed to follow the Andal faith. But then he listened closer, and—well, Quellon had studied at the Citadel before winning his reputation as a raider, so he knew more than most Ironborn did of the Seven.</p><p>Why was a young Dornish girl praying to the Crone, the Warrior, and the Stranger? And why did none of her prayers seem to be for herself—except for one wish for the grace to accept her fate?</p><p>Thoroughly disturbed, Quellon yanked himself away from the door as he heard her ask the Stranger for peace. He knew what <em>that</em> meant.</p><p>Perhaps it was more than time to decide what to do with his captives.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Sixth Moon, 257 AC, The Queen Dyanna—The Narrow Sea, approaching the Titan of Braavos</em>
</p><p>Iaret Nymeros Martell looked out the window of her cabin, barely able to make out a figure on the horizon. Her spine was as straight as the spear of her sigil, and that didn’t change when the door opened—if anything, it became stiffer. She didn’t turn to see the interloper.</p><p>“Who is Rayna Dayne?”</p><p>“Good evening, Lord Greyjoy,” she said coolly, refusing to betray that her heart was in her throat at his words. Someone snorted; not the young Lord—though his voice held more than a hint of laughter when he spoke again.</p><p>“Good evening, my lady—or should I say, <em>Princess</em>? I admire your people’s loyalty, Princess Iaret. Now, tell me who the lady captive on mine own ship is.” At that, Iaret did turn, glaring furiously at him.</p><p>“How <em>dare</em> you, my lord? She is a <em>child</em>!” The young man before her blinked at her for a moment before seeming to realize her accusation and blanching. His burlier—and likely older—companion, on the other hand, reddened, and almost charged in her direction before Lord Greyjoy put a restraining hand on his forearm. The raider lord sighed, kicking the door shut before approaching closer, giving his companion a reproving look. Running his hand through already tousled hair of tarnished gold, he asked,</p><p>“May I take a seat, Princess?” Intrigued, and slightly less angry—though still worried—Iaret waved a hand. She winced slightly as he scraped the boxy chair across from her over the wood of the floor. His companion loomed behind him as he sat. Quirking a lopsided smile, the Lord of the Iron Isles said,</p><p>“As you have clearly gathered, I am Quellon Vickonsson of House Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Isles, Heir to the Seastone Chair.” He waved a hand at his companion. “My mother’s brother, Thyran Leifsson of House Volmark.” Iaret nodded regally.</p><p>“Princess Iaret Nymeros Martell, heir to the Sunchair. As you have clearly guessed,” she added wryly. Lord Greyjoy’s mouth twitched, and he leaned forward.</p><p>“An honor, Princess.” He sighed briefly, and leaned back into the chair. “Let me set your mind—and my honor—at ease. I have not touched Lady…Rayna. Neither have any of my men. One, who clearly wished to claim such a beautiful girl, took her to my ship. He has since been relieved of his sword-hand for desiring a girl under the age of twenty.” She stared at him in relieved disbelief.</p><p>He raised a brow, but didn’t speak. It was his uncle, Lord Thyran, who spoke in a rough growl.</p><p>“Princess, despite our reputation, we are <em>not</em> savages. It was very clear she is still a girl. No one will touch her, and no one <em>has</em>. She is confined to one of the smaller cabins for her own safety. An unattached and unprotected girl of her beauty will lead many men to forget their morals.” It was Iaret who raised her brow now.</p><p>“I appreciate that you follow your own laws, my lords. But <em>why</em> do you care about her fate? I would think our only choices are death, slavery, or becoming a salt wife.” Both men winced, and she leaned forward, thoroughly intrigued.</p><p>“Princess, most of my people do not condone slavery, and neither do I. I admit, thralldom may seem similar, but it has its significant differences.” He paused, and shrugged slightly. “I have heard many of the Free Cities claim they see little difference between their slaves, and most Greenlander peasants.” Iaret pressed her lips together with displeasure, but she could not naysay him, for she had heard the same. At least when the Braavosi said so, they lacked hypocrisy, as opposed to the slaveholders that were Pentos, Lys, and Volantis.</p><p>She crossed her arms, resting them atop the table.</p><p>“I respect your argument, Lord Greyjoy. But you have still not answered my question. Nor have you explained why we are approaching the free City of Braavos.” She frowned deeply with confusion as the young lord rose from his seat to begin pacing instead of answering her. Her frown only deepened when Lord Thyran replaced his nephew in front of her. Modulating his growl, the large man spoke relatively quietly.</p><p>“Princess, my lord has a conscience, though his morals may be very different from yours.” She tilted her head in bemusement, her worry not abating in the least.</p><p>“By which you mean…?”</p><p>“For the last fortnight and change, he has heard your foster daughter pleading to the Mother for you, and to the Crone, the Warrior, and the Stranger for herself. Most often, to the Stranger.” Iaret couldn’t hold back the breath that hissed out through her teeth. Lord Greyjoy looked up from his pacing at the sound, his expression clearly torn.</p><p>“I cannot simply let you go. It is not my people’s way. Asides, simply dropping you off at the first port would bring you Greenlanders down on my isles.” Iaret could not very well deny that statement.</p><p>“Therefore…Braavos?” He nodded.</p><p>“Aye, therefore Braavos.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Sixth Moon, 257 AC, The Port of the Titan—Braavos</em>
</p><p>Rhaella cried out when the door opened, even such muted light stinging her eyes after how long she had been in the darkness. She could hear sheepish men mumbling from a short distance away and above them, a familiar, coolly commanding voice.</p><p>“Iaret, you’re alive, you’re safe?” For once, Rhaella forgot her proprieties, too relieved that the woman who had raised her more than her mother through blood ever had, still lived. When warm arms and the familiar scents of myrrh and cassia surrounded her, Rhaella’s eyes began to prickle with tears. Despite being close to grown, she hid her face against Iaret’s neck as her foster-mother held her.</p><p>“I am perfectly alright, sweetling. Only angry that these Ironborn were fools as well as pirates,” Iaret said, rubbing her back in a gentle, circular motion. There was an offended noise from the direction of the doorway, but both Rhaella and Iaret ignored its source. Eventually, dizzy with the sudden, seemingly brightening of their circumstances, Rhaella raised her head. Though she was considerably shaken, she was relieved to find her eyes had begun to adjust to daylight once again.</p><p>As she had said, Iaret looked as well as she had when Rhaella had seen her before being taken to the Ironborn flagship. The cut that had been bleeding as that raider had carried her off looked to be healing into a distinctive scar against Iaret’s cheekbone, but the older woman’s shadowed eyes were the only other thing to indicate any upset. Rhaella managed a shaky smile as she met those dark eyes, and Iaret smiled back at her before clicking her tongue and dusting Rhaella’s face off with a corner of her usual draped headscarf. Out of habit, Rhaella wrinkled her face at her, and Iaret laughed slightly before fixing the drape of her headscarf.</p><p>“Do you think you can stand, sweetling?” Rhaella resisted the urge to shrug.</p><p>“I can try.” <em>Try</em> was indeed the correct statement, for she would have fallen flat on her face if Iaret hadn’t had her arm around Rhaella’s waist. Wobbling, Rhaella blinked as a thin, gauzy scarf was dropped over her head. Her foster-mother sounded both amused and annoyed as she said in response to Rhaella’s inquiring noise,</p><p>“Your eyes may have started to adjust, Rhae, but the sunlight will hurt your eyes. Now, lean on me, and we will get you out of here, and off the ship.” Rhaella stared at her—off the <em>Ironborn</em> ship?!—but nodded in acquiescence.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Quellon observed the girl closely as she inched out of the cabin on Princess Iaret’s arm. She certainly <em>appeared</em> as if she could be Dornish. She had the complexion of the mountain Dornish he’d met in his life, and her tightly curled silver hair and indigo blue eyes could be explained by Dayne or Martell heritage. Still, he was suspicious. Despite the lacking guard The Dyanna had possessed, it <em>was</em> a royal ship, and there was no obvious reason for even the Princess of Dorne to be traveling on a royal ship carrying no cargo, <em>unless</em> it held a member of the royal family.</p><p>And <em>that</em> was precisely the reason Quellon was taking his captives to Braavos.</p><p>Even <em>he</em> didn’t want to tempt the trouble that would arise if it was confirmed that he had captured a Targaryen.</p><p><em>Curse my over-ambition</em>, he thought, not for the first time since taking the royal vessel. <em>Why couldn’t I have abducted a Volantene triarch’s daughter, or even a princess of Great Moraq? Any of them would have been less trouble than the daughter of my nominal king.</em></p><p>Despite being thoroughly occupied with mentally kicking himself, Quellon did observe that the probable Targaryen Princess didn’t seem too traumatized by several days in almost complete darkness.</p><p>In fact, as he trailed the two women off of his ship, he was rather impressed to hear her quizzing Princess Iaret on the health and whereabouts of his other captives—she was made of sterner stuff than he had entirely anticipated.</p>
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